


(you still have) All of Me

by IDreamOnlyOfYou (lauren3210)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauren3210/pseuds/IDreamOnlyOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike just wants to see his office one last time, before his name is removed and everything goes back to how it should be. Well, almost everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you still have) All of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick porny coda to the season 3 premiere episode, for Tatum, because she gets me. I just needed something to happen in that office, because it's a damn shame Mike gave it back before having sex in it (it's my own personal headcanon that he and Harvey _frequently_ get it on in Harvey's office, and nobody can convince me otherwise :))

Staying late at Pearson Hardman - no, Pearson _Darby_ now - doesn’t feel the same as staying late at any other job. High schools become creepy places to be, halls echoing with laughter long after its occupants have left for the day. Airports become sleepy and quiet, travellers moving with a hush to their footsteps usually only reserved for libraries. Hospitals descend into a slumber, even the cries of people in pain seemingly muted compared to the bustle of the daytime, even the night nurses whispering to each other as they go about their business. But law offices are hardly ever quiet. There’s always someone researching in the library, walking down the softly carpeted hallways to the bathrooms, the kitchens, anywhere that could give them a break from the monotony of the work spread in front of them.

The bullpen tends to quiet down quicker than the rest of the building. All the associates crammed in during the day wait impatiently for the moment the last senior partner leaves, so they can escape somewhere else, the library, the copy room, the secretary pool, just somewhere that doesn’t smell of sweat and desperation, somewhere they can spread out their work, tilt back their chair, loosen their tie and just breathe through all the stress as they continue with their tasks. Mike only leaves his cubicle once Harvey leaves, picking up his work and carrying it up through the many flights of stairs to Harvey’s office, where he can watch the city below go about its business while he carries on with his. He’s careful not to touch the balls lined along the window, and he keeps away from the vinyls on their shelves - they’re not his kind of music anyway, as much as they suit Harvey. He spreads his work out over the coffee table, rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie, and settles down to work, leaning back against the plush couch with his earbuds in and his music turned up high. He never notices what time the cleaners come through the floor, too involved in the words in front of him, and more often than not he’s still there at 6AM when it’s time for him to go back down to his own floor and begin the day all over again. To Mike, the noise level in the office never dips below that of the relieved sighs of the other associates, the low hum of the vacuum cleaners working on other levels, the constant crank and whir of the copy machines. He’s always too comfortably ensconced in Harvey’s office, the glass doors closed at his back, to notice if the sounds ever truly go away.

Except, that’s not really an option any more.

Tonight, Mike sits in his cubicle long after all the other associates have wandered off to find more comfortable places to work, earbuds stuffed in his ears and music turned up high, as usual. But he can’t concentrate on the proofs in front of him. His skin itches and his muscles jump, his collar feels tight around his throat even though he’s already undone the top button and loosened his tie. His eyes are tired and his head hurts, and he can feel the walls of his cubicle closing in tighter around him, making it hard to breathe. He’d never noticed before that he could touch both sides with his fingertips while still sitting in his chair. He wants to stretch his legs out, lean back in his seat and roll his neck out to relieve the strain, but his desk is too cramped to let him do more than pop his knee and the chair is too upright to let him stretch out the way his body needs. These ergonomic chairs are supposed to give him lumbar support; all this one does is make him feel claustrophobic.

It’s no good, he can’t work like this. He picks up the proofs he has to get to Louis by 8AM in the morning - in less than 5 hours time - and shoves them into his messenger bag. He can’t take them home (he’d be too tempted to leave them and just crawl into bed instead) but if he’s lucky he might be able to find a quiet all night diner where he can mainline coffee and spread out a little, somewhere he’ll feel comfortable. Although he doubts anywhere will feel quite as comfortable as Harvey’s office. The hallways are silent as he walks down to the bank of elevators; even the copy room is a black hole of sound as he goes past. The secretary pool is dark and quiet, the computers all turned off and the lights dimmed down to the minimum, the desks brightly polished and vacuum tracks lining the carpet. As Mike steps inside the car, he hesitates for a moment, then presses the button to go up, instead of down to the lobby.

The doors open onto silence, and Mike walks out, listening to the sound of his heartbeat in place of everything - _anything_ \- else. The silence is almost unnerving, almost makes him want to backtrack into the elevator and down to the lobby and the security guards, almost makes him want to ride up to another floor and reassure himself with the familiarity of that plush couch, the balls lining the windows, the vinyls sitting on their shelves.

He keeps on walking, past the quiet bathrooms, the shut down computers, the darkened offices, until he gets to one. He pauses outside the door, lifts a hand to smooth his pointer finger across the white printed letters: _Mike Ross. Associate._ He’d had the office for less than a day, but it still meant something to him, seeing his name in stark white letters, standing out on the highly polished glass for everyone to see. He takes a mental picture, so he can still see it even after Jessica had his name removed and the office allocated to someone else.

He pushes open the door, lets it glide back into place behind him as he walks over to the desk, leans his hands on it as he looks down onto the street below, watches cars and people scurry around like ants from his position high up in the clouds. He looks around the office, tries to imagine what he could have turned it into. It’s nowhere near as big as Harvey’s of course, but he amuses himself for a moment, wondering what collections he could have lined the window with, the things he could have put on his shelves. He’s not interested enough in sport to start a collection of signed anything. All his music comes in CD form and I tunes downloads, so that’s out. No point in books; once he’s read one, he wouldn’t need to look at it again. Somehow he doesn’t think his previous assortment of bowls and pipes would have made the right impression.

He sighs; it was a good thing, really, that he gave the office up. Not having anything to fill it with just proves he’s not ready to have it. But he _did_ like it, liked seeing his name on the door, knowing that everyone who walked past would know that this space was solely for him. Not for the reasons he got it, of course; no matter how comfortable he felt sitting behind the desk without any low cubicle walls hemming him in, the sick swoop of guilt over how he got it cancelled it out. He would never have felt like he belonged in this room, not while knowing what he had done to get him there, the spoils of a war he shouldn’t have even been fighting in, a hand out from a woman who’d played the game and won. But the name on the door, that was something he could think about. It gave him something to strive for, a goal that he knew he could enjoy to its fullest once he’d truly earned it.

“Enjoying the spoils of war?”

Mike doesn’t jump; he’d heard the soft swish of the door behind him, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as they always did when close to Harvey. He crooks up one side of his lips in an amused smile; trust Harvey to use the exact words he had been thinking, plucking them out of his head and speaking them into the air. Unashamed, because what did Harvey have to be ashamed of in this mess?

“I gave it back. I just wanted to feel it for a moment.”

“Gave it back? What, not enough square footage for you?”

Mike sighs, watches Harvey step closer in the reflection of the windows. It’s too dark to make out his features, his back lit by the low lighting in the hallway, the ever present gel making his hair glisten.

“Harvey-”

“No. I’m not here to listen to your excuses.” His hands reach out, and Mike feels fingers slide around his waist, dip into his hips before skating around to his belt buckle. “I don’t care that you thought you had reasons,” the buckle slips open and Harvey’s fingers play with his pants button, “I don’t want to hear what you have to say to me,” his fly slides down, fingers hot against his skin, “I just... I just-”

Harvey cuts himself off with a groan as he presses his hand on Mike’s stomach, pushing his shirt up, fingers catching on the waistband of his boxers. Mike bites down on his bottom lip and presses back against Harvey, a whimper trembling through him as he feels the long line of Harvey’s body along his back, knee pushing between his thighs. He keeps his hands on the desk and his teeth buried in his lip, knowing that saying anything might break them out of this spell, might make Harvey reconsider and pull back, and Mike is just so desperate to feel this, to feel _Harvey_.

But it doesn’t seem as though Harvey is thinking about stopping, because his hands continue moving down, fingers scrabbling at the waistband of Mike’s clothes, shoving them down past his hips to mid thigh, chest pressing down on Mike’s spine and bending him over further. Mike feels Harvey’s fingers slide over his skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake as he palms Mike’s buttocks before sliding in between. He feels pressure against his entrance and he forces himself not to tense, hears the sound of a packet crinkling and tearing. Harvey’s hands leave him for a moment and Mike almost moans at the loss of touch, before they’re back, one on his hip and the other moving back down, hot and slick and demanding entry. One finger and then two and then three, and it’s hard and it’s fast and it’s angry, and Mike has never wanted anything more. The fingers withdraw and then Harvey is there, breath hot against the nape of Mike’s neck as he positions himself, pushes in slowly but insistently. The hand gripping his hip slides around to the front, dipping down to where Mike is hard and waiting for him. Harvey skips his other hand up over the knobs of Mike’s spine, fingers sliding into his hair and pulling _just right_ and then he’s moving, not waiting for permission, not needing to, because he knows Mike’s body as well as he knows his own by now. He jerks his wrist in time to his thrusts, and it’s all Mike can do to hold on and not come right then, because it’s been _weeks_ since they’ve done this and he didn’t know if he would ever get to have it again, and all he can feel is Harvey’s hands on him and Harvey filling him and Harvey moving against him and inside him, Harvey’s pants rubbing along his thighs and the buttons of Harvey’s waistcoat digging into his back through his shirt and all he can think is _Harvey, Harvey, Harvey..._

But it’s too hard and too fast and it’s over too soon and Mike is coming with a groan and a push of his hips back, come splattering Harvey’s hand and the desk he never got to use, that he didn’t deserve in the first place, and he tries to keep it in but he can’t and his efforts turn the word into a sob as he gasps out, “ _Harvey_.”

Harvey pulls his hands away, places one on his hip to pull him in tighter, closer, and one on the desk next to Mike’s, thumb overlapping Mike’s little finger, stroking along it as he thrusts in once, twice more before coming hard, slamming Mike against the desk and neither of them caring.

They stand together for what seems like forever, their breaths loud in the silence of the surrounding empty offices. Then Harvey shifts, and Mike feels the press of lips against the nape of his neck as Harvey withdraws, hears the metal whir of a zip being pulled up. Mike reaches a hand up, over his shoulder, slides his fingers through Harvey’s hair, just needing him close, just for a moment longer.

“I miss you,” he murmurs, watching the still outline of Harvey’s shoulders in the window.

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

He feels the cold set in as Harvey steps back, the distance between them more than just physical, wider and deeper than the inches now separating their bodies, loneliness and sorrow setting in once more as Harvey turns on his heel and strides out of the office, door sliding shut behind him. _Mike Ross. Associate_.

Mike hopes someone else’s name will be on the door by tomorrow.


End file.
